


all we seem to do is talk about sex

by dustyloves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Body Image, Coming of Age, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Mental Health Issues, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 02:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18489154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyloves/pseuds/dustyloves
Summary: Grantaire won't have sex.





	all we seem to do is talk about sex

**Author's Note:**

> Psychological issues... but make it sexy. (Hi! I'm back, sort of!) 
> 
> Everyone is a WLW, again. Set in """Paris""". 
> 
> Title from 'Sex' by the 1975. On [Tumblr](http://theo-decker.tumblr.com) as always.
> 
> Translation [in Chinese](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786517) now available!

Grantaire won't have sex.

She wants to. Enjolras can tell when they are making out on Enjolras's couch after another night at the Corinthe. Grantaire's gasping, panting, chest heaving. Her heartbeat thumps hard under Enjolras's hand, like a trapped bird's wings battering the walls of its cage. Whenever Enjolras pulls back, Grantaire chases her, swaying forward as if pulled by a magnetic field, eyes closed like she's swooning.

Until Enjolras snakes a hand up Grantaire's back to fiddle with the clasp of her bra, and Grantaire startles and jerks back.

'Sorry,' Enjolras says. 'I thought... It's okay, though. Are you okay?'

'I'm fine,' Grantaire says, but she's getting up. 'I just remembered I have a shitload of work to do for this deadline on Monday.'

Enjolras feels blindsided. She's still aroused, a warmth buzzing under her skin. Grantaire's mouth is red and swollen and saliva-slick, her dark hair is attractively tousled, and there's a hickey forming under her jaw. Without thinking, Enjolras licks her lips. Grantaire's eyes track the motion.

She groans internally, sucker-punched by desire.

'That's okay,' she forces out, and hopes it's not too obvious that she's squeezing her thighs together. 'If you want, you can use my laptop. We can order in some food.'

'Cheers, but my books are at home.' Grantaire's pulling her coat and shoes on. She's leaving. (Why is she leaving?)

'I'll see you at the ABC next week,' she says.

Enjolras says, 'I'll text you.'

'Sure.' Grantaire flashes a quick, distracted smile, and she's gone.

And Enjolras thought they were having a nice time. 

-

It does hurt, which is perhaps irrational. If Grantaire isn't okay with sex, she isn't okay with sex. There are thousands of possibilities why that might be that don't boil down to 'I am physically disgusted by Enjolras's pussy in particular'. Besides, there's no point in poking and prodding at the issue, inflaming it.

But Enjolras can't stop thinking about how it used to be when they were undergrads.

Back then, she was possessed by lofty ideals. She worked, she campaigned, but above all, she sat at Courfeyrac's kitchen table and sermonised. People would show up to Courf's parties just to watch her talk. She was 'the political one'. She held forth about the evils of government and the money system, ideology and false consciousness, the need for a violent overthrow of the ruling class, the blocks one might use to build a new society, a utopia free from poverty and oppression, based on principles of kindness, compassion, _from each according to their ability, to each according to their needs_. Years passed, Enjolras got her undergrad degree; the revolution never came, and she began to realise that maybe she preached _kindness_ and _compassion_ so loudly because of a personal deficit of those qualities. In short: she changed from a grandiose, self-righteous orator to a passionate (if slightly awkward) law student trying to enact real social change, and for the most part she was glad of it.

In those days, Grantaire, too, was playing a role. Grantaire had an undercut, a lip ring, and kept her sleeves rolled up to reveal a stupid, lewd stick 'n' poke of two interlocked pairs of scissors—god, Enjolras used to _hate_ that. Grantaire always carried a glass of whisky in hand, and had a low, husky, mirthless laugh that she wielded like a weapon.

'...And so it is our moral imperative to overthrow the class system,' Enjolras would conclude another monologue, and before anyone could say anything, that laugh would start up, rising in volume to fill the room, until Enjolras was flushed with fury.

(And maybe something else. Like most things about Grantaire, her silky laugh got under Enjolras's skin more than should have been possible. Sometimes she heard it in her head when she was alone, sliding a hand between her thighs.)

Here it was, though: Grantaire used to sleep around a lot. So did Courf and Bahorel, but for them, it seemed less intentional. Courf just loved people, and formed connections quickly and intensely; Bahorel, with her athleticism, long legs, tanned skin and sunny, goofy demeanour, drew women and men in without effort. But there was something compulsive in the way Grantaire did it, how she swooped in and bought a drink for any newcomer; desperate in the lengths she went to avoid going home alone. And Grantaire had a swagger and edge that attracted and repelled women in equal measure, a Shane-esque aura that inspired her exes to write passive-aggressive blog posts about how women, too, are capable of embodying toxic masculinity.

It isn't fair or right to judge grown-up Grantaire by the actions of messy, baby Grantaire, but Enjolras is alone, and feeling rejected, and her mind is playing a loop of all the girls she's seen Grantaire with before and whispering _why them and not me?_  

_-_

Just as Enjolras grew out of pontificating, Grantaire grew out of striving to be meaner, cooler, harder and more cynical than everyone else. The undercut grew out. The day-drinking dwindled. Grantaire devoted herself to her artwork, martial arts training and dancing. Suddenly her laugh wasn't following Enjolras around anymore.

Enjolras realised she missed it. She realised a few other things as well.

'So you wanted to see me because...?' Grantaire drawled. Enjolras couldn't stop looking at her. She was all messy dark hair, black witchy eyes glinting in the dim light of the bar, her tattoos disappearing into a silk blouse, a blazer over the top.

'Because I haven't seen you in a long time,' Enjolras told her. 'I missed you.'

Grantaire's lip curled. 'You missed me? I don't think you've ever voluntarily spent time in my presence.'

'That's not true.'

'Is this out of some misplaced sense of duty or obligation? Or do you just feel guilty? I promise you, I'm not neglected. I'm not like some bony feral cat with mats in its fur. Or did somebody send you to check on me? You can tell Courfeyrac I'm doing fine, even though she had the nerve to drag me to that godawful open mic night. I had to hear a white man cover Nicki Minaj on an acoustic guitar. Some sins can never be forgiven. Tell her—'

Enjolras cut her off with a kiss. Grantaire froze for a long moment, and then, just as Enjolras was about to pull away, opened her mouth and began to kiss back. Her hand found its way to the back of Enjolras's neck, and Enjolras shuddered, the fine hairs standing up, and clutched at Grantaire's blazer like she was drowning.

That was one week ago. 

-

 Enjolras texts.

 

_Hello. Is everything OK?_

 

_hi, yep yep totally fine just stressed about this essay. I'll get thru it though (I always do)_

 

_OK. Good luck!_

_I didn't upset you or pressurise you earlier, did I? It's fine if you want us to slow down._

_Or if making out is as much as you want to do. Or even if you want to stop doing that._

_Just let me know._

 

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

 

_lol trust me e, you didn't upset me. and I don't want to stop. everything was good._

_really good._

_it's my own shit. I'll deal with it._

_talk soon._

_x_

 

Enjolras accepts the finality of this, writes back a quick 'Sure, talk later', and sets down the phone, dissatisfied. 

-

The ABC meeting is torture.

Grantaire takes a seat at the front of the conference room, smack in the centre of Enjolras's eye-line, so every time she looks up from her notes, all she sees is Grantaire slouching, legs spread suggestively. Usually, Grantaire spends these meetings sketching, rolling cigarettes or playing with fidget toys, but today she's laser-focused—though regrettably, Enjolras thinks, probably not on the issue of fundraising for the local women's shelter. Her gaze is heavy with meaning; Enjolras can feel it even when she looks away, like a physical touch. It feels as though she's in a sauna, the air thick, and it's harder to breathe than usual, let alone get out her words. Each time she falters, Grantaire's mouth twitches with a smirk.

Enjolras is going to fucking die.

'So, we have the march on Saturday,' Combeferre read off her phone. 'Don't forget it's student union café is stocking new Fairtrade goods starting on Monday. Joly is doing a stall outside, so be sure and stop by. Is everyone good for next week?'

A mumble of assent. People are already packing up their belongings, shrugging on their coats, and conversation is already breaking out.

'So, Enjolras, are you okay to phone and book the dance hall for the fundraiser, or do you need me to do it?' Combeferre asks.

'It's fine, I'll do it,' Enjolras says. She can't help but glance back at the seats. While everyone else is filing out, Grantaire's still sitting motionless.

'Good, that takes another thing off my list. Just try and get it done before Friday so we can start publicising it.'

'Yeah, of course.'

'Enjolras.'

Enjolras's eyes snap back to Combeferre, who is watching her with a mixture of amusement and concern.

'I've got it!' she protests.

'Are you okay?'

 _Great, just about to burst into flames._ 'Yes,' Enjolras says firmly. 'I promise, nothing you need to worry about.'

'I'm only asking because—'

'—because I have a tendency to be an idiot, I know.' Enjolras takes a breath. 'I can't really talk about it right now—' She doesn't think Grantaire would appreciate Enjolras inviting their friends into their sex life, and though it's not exactly a secret, and Courfeyrac has probably already guessed, she hasn't told anyone that this is even a _thing_ yet. 'But it's nothing you need to worry about.' _And I really need you and everyone else to leave, like five minutes ago._

Combeferre gives Enjolras an awkward, comradely pat on the arm, gathers up her laptop and leaves. When the conference room door slams shut, Enjolras and Grantaire are finally, finally alone.

'I fucking hate you,' says Enjolras.

Grantaire's smirk deepens. She rises from her seat and saunters over.

'Harsh words,' she says, voice barely above a murmur. 'Really inappropriate. I don't think that's in the ABC conflict resolution protocol.'

She's such a jerk.

'Please,' Enjolras begs.

Grantaire's eyes go dark and hungry, and she closes the distance between them and claims her mouth in a kiss. At the first point of contact, Enjolras makes a high, desperate sound; Grantaire grabs her by the waist and pulls her closer with surprising force. Enjolras's legs are turning to water.

Grantaire's lips are soft and slick, but her kiss is hard and urgent, and the combination is mind-melting. She smells, as always, of musky perfume and a trace of tobacco, and the scent is becoming another erotic trigger, another way Grantaire can take Enjolras apart without even trying. Grantaire's hands are in Enjolras's hair, and when she tugs gently, experimentally, Enjolras shocks herself by moaning out loud.

'I— _aah—_ not here,' she manages.

'Hmm?' Grantaire's face is buried in Enjolras's neck, and she's mouthing at the spot between her neck and shoulder. It's too good; Enjolras is tilting her head back, giving Grantaire better access, shuddering.

She gets it together eventually, and digs her nails in Grantaire's shoulder. 'Come on. Back to my place.'

Grantaire breaks off reluctantly. 'Fine,' she says.

Enjolras grabs her rucksack, hits the lights and locks up before they leave. Grantaire follows her out of the building, across the campus courtyard and into the street.

There's a touch of awkwardness between them now that the momentum has broken, but Enjolras keeps catching Grantaire sneaking glances at her as they're walking side by side. The third time it happens, Enjolras can't suppress a snicker. Grantaire grins back at her, delighted.

'Did you ever see this coming?' Enjolras asks as they descend the steps to the métro.

' _No_ ,' Grantaire says immediately. 'Well. I don't _think_ so. I maybe—wished for it, in some obscure way, buried deep down and smothered.'

It's an unusually vulnerable thing for Grantaire to say, and Enjolras looks back at her, startled. Grantaire is blushing, looking sheepish.

'Did you like me before?' Enjolras asks.

'We're going to miss the train,' Grantaire says, instead of answering.

They run out onto the platform just as the doors slide open, slip inside. The carriage is crowded; they are jammed next together in their seats. Everyone is silent, preoccupied with their phones, or books, or the paper, so Enjolras and Grantaire are too.

Two stops from home, Grantaire starts lightly drumming her fingers on Enjolras's leg, just above her knee. Enjolras looks at her: she's feigning nonchalance, appears to be studying the No Smoking sign opposite.

Enjolras glares until Grantaire finally meets her eyes. Grantaire's mouth twitches with suppressed laughter. She looks away again, and rests her hand flat on Enjolras's leg; hardly better. 

-

'Can I get you a drink?' Enjolras asks once they're upstairs in Enjolras's flat. 'I don't have any whisky, but I might have some wine stashed somewhere.'

'Um. Yes please,' Grantaire says, and perches on Enjolras's couch while she rummages through a cupboard in her kitchenette for a bottle of Beaujolais she won in a raffle last Christmas.

She's fetching a glass when she hears, 'I can't believe you still have all this stuff.'

Grantaire is examining the wire letter rack on the coffee table, overstuffed with miscellaneous bits of paper: crumpled flyers for past events and fundraisers, handmade zines, the odd unopened bank statement. She holds up a photograph Courfeyrac took in first year on a disposable camera. A meeting at the Corinthe. Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet are smiling for the camera; Enjolras is ignoring them, busy in conversation with Feuilly.

'Remember when your hair looked like this?'

Enjolras looks closer, and cringes: the days of the ill-advised bangs. 'Whatever. Remember your undercut?'

'Point taken.' She sets the photo down on the table. 'Oh,' she says, sounding surprised.

It's a flyer for Grantaire's undergrad art exhibition, featuring a small print of one of Grantaire's works: a rough, scribbly image of a woman, nude, eyes closed, legs spread. _CRAVE: An Original Exhibition by R._

'I really had no subtlety,' Grantaire mutters, taking the glass and the bottle from Enjolras's hands, and pouring herself a measure.

'I liked it,' Enjolras says. She remembers a lot of strange, dark works that looked as if Grantaire had clawed at the canvas with her fingernails in a burst of sheer frustration. 'It was, like. Powerful.'

'What are you talking about? You never saw it.'

'Yes, I did.'

'No, you must be thinking of something else. Remember? You couldn't go because of the march for climate change.'

'I couldn't come to the _opening night_ ,' Enjolras corrects her. 'I still went to the exhibition.'

'Oh,' Grantaire says.

'I remember seeing your abstract self-portrait,' Enjolras says, desperate to prove herself right. 'It was the only thing in oils. And it had a long title. What was it? " _I miss things I don't have_ ," or something like that.'

'" _Sometimes I miss things I never even had_."'

'That was it.'

'Fuck,' Grantaire says. The syllable sounds like it was torn from her throat.

She drains her glass in a couple of gulps, slams it on the table, wraps a hand around the back of Enjolras's neck, and kisses her hard, with purpose and determination.

Enjolras sinks into it, relieved.

'On the couch,' Grantaire orders. Enjolras obeys, seating herself horizontally, her back propped against an armrest.

For a moment, Grantaire's eyes travel the length of Enjolras's body; Enjolras shudders. And then Grantaire's moving, crawling between Enjolras's legs, until they're pressed together, hip to hip, stomach to stomach, and Grantaire kisses her again, long and slow and sensual, her tongue massaging Enjolras's luxuriously. Enjolras whimpers and arches up underneath her. Her ankle brushes Grantaire's calf. She wants to wrap her legs around Grantaire's hips and _squeeze_.

Grantaire isn't having it, though. She tugs the cotton of Enjolras's shirt until Enjolras raises her arms and lets her pull it over her head. Goosebumps rise in her skin at the sudden exposure to the cool air; when Grantaire unclips her bra, her nipples are hard. It's the most naked Enjolras has ever been in front of Grantaire, but she doesn't have time to think more than a frantic _this is happening_ before Grantaire sucks a nipple into her mouth gently, causing Enjolras to cry out and buck against her again.

Grantaire stays there, swirling her tongue, then switches to the other, Enjolras writhing in frustration until she finally bites out, 'Grantaire, I don't need—it's fine. Just fuck me. Please.'

Grantaire pulls off then and regards her for a second, her dark eyes gone even darker. Enjolras stares back: _please, please, please_.

The jeans come off—Enjolras wriggling and kicking, which makes Grantaire snort in amusement—and then so do her briefs. At the first hesitant touch, Enjolras's brain blanks, as if the brain cells are so overloaded with pleasure signals that the power's blown out. Her body jerks convulsively. It's so intense it almost hurts, but when Grantaire asks 'Okay?', Enjolras says, 'Keep going.'

Having Grantaire's fingers inside of her is deeply fucking satisfying. Grantaire's tentative at first, but gains confidence quickly, and begins thrusting hard and deep. Enjolras is made of nerve endings. She throws her head back, arches into Grantaire's touch, already chasing orgasm.

She's so close, she's barely aware of her surroundings, of the desperate sounds ripped from her own throat. She doesn't notice Grantaire shifting on top of her. When Grantaire's mouth closes on her clit, she spasms and shouts.

' _Ah—_ fuck, Grantaire, stop, please, it's too much, I can't, I won't be able to come,' she whimpers, and obediently Grantaire slows down, though doesn't pull off entirely. Instead, she keeps her lips pressed there in a light whisper of a kiss and keeps thrusting, until Enjolras finally comes.

Grantaire maintains her rhythm through it, wringing out every last aftershock until Enjolras is over-sensitised and trembling. For a while after—Enjolras can't tell how long, time slipping from her grasp—she lies there, limbs pleasantly heavy, muscles aching from the intensity of her orgasm.

Finally, she stretches and pulls herself upright. Grantaire is sitting on the side of the couch, watching her with a mixture of affection and something like melancholy. She's still fully dressed.

'Come here,' Enjolras says.

Grantaire shuffles up next to her on the couch. Enjolras pulls her into her lap, and kisses her thoroughly. She can tell Grantaire is aroused to the point of desperation, from the guttural sound she makes in her throat when Enjolras's tongue meets hers, the way she grabs a handful of Enjolras's hair.

But when Enjolras slips a hand down the front of Grantaire's jeans, Grantaire catches her by the wrist.

'It's fine,' she says.

Enjolras pulls back an inch, frowning. Grantaire is flushed, her eyes bright, breathing hard.

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure. Seriously, I'm good.'

Enjolras has met stone butch types before, knows it's not entirely uncommon, but never got that impression from Grantaire herself. She watches Grantaire curiously.

Under the scrutiny, Grantaire squirms.

'Do you want to watch a film or something?' she asks.

'Okay,' Enjolras says. 'I'll get the HDMI cable.'

'I'm going for a cigarette, if that's okay,' Grantaire says, getting up, and lets herself out onto the balcony. 

-

They spend the rest of the night watching Parts Unknown and trading kisses. Grantaire finishes the bottle of wine, and doesn't let Enjolras call her an Uber at the end of the night.

'I'll walk,' she says. Her lips are stained burgundy. Enjolras can't resist leaning in to steal another kiss, eliciting a small wry smile.

'Will you text me when you get home, then?'

'Seriously, I'll be fine.'

'Please?'

Grantaire rolls her eyes. 'If you insist.'

She leaves, and Enjolras sits up waiting for the text. It's about twenty minutes from Enjolras's apartment to Grantaire's. She waits half an hour. Then she opens up Messenger on her phone. Grantaire is online.

 _Everything OK?_ Enjolras messages her. The tick appears, and Grantaire's little icon slides to the bottom of the message: she's read it.

Enjolras waits for a reply. It never arrives. 

-

What frustrates Enjolras is she can't quite put her finger on what exactly it _is_ that's frustrating her. Grantaire isn't avoiding her, per se. She comes to the ABC meeting as usual. She's at Joly's Fairtrade stall in the student union. When Enjolras drops in at the Musain and grabs a coffee to-go before her Criminal Law lecture, Grantaire makes pleasant conversation with her from the other side of the counter. She tells a funny story about Bossuet tripping over a cat and another about a customer who ordered a latte without the milk. She winks at Enjolras and draws a tiny hammer and sickle next to her name on the coffee cup. She's warm and bright and flirtatious, maybe more so than usual.

Nothing is wrong, except Enjolras can't get her alone. At the stall, Grantaire—coincidentally—runs into one of her coursemates, and is obliged to speak to them for half an hour before disappearing. After the meeting she rushes off, saying something like, 'I've got work to do.' She doesn't reply to Enjolras's messages. When Enjolras catches her on campus and says, 'Hey, I messaged you,' Grantaire says, 'Oh, sorry, I just forgot to reply. Hectic week,' but still doesn't write back.

Maybe she doesn't want this, Enjolras thinks.

Maybe, after all, they did move too fast.

Maybe it was fine at the time, but now Grantaire regrets it.

Maybe it wasn't good? Enjolras thinks it was good; she keeps getting off to the memory of Grantaire giving her that long look as Enjolras lay on the couch, before crawling up the length of her body. But perhaps Grantaire's side of things was different; after all, she was mainly giving, Enjolras receiving.

Maybe, for Grantaire, these kinds of encounters are so commonplace as to be practically beneath notice; they don't inspire romantic attachment, they don't prey on her mind, and she really is just that busy with coursework.

Whatever the scenario, Enjolras really needs to take Grantaire's actions at face value. She isn't spending time alone with Enjolras because on some level she doesn't want to spend time alone with Enjolras, and Enjolras just has to accept it.

She explains this flatly to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, curled up on Courf's hardwood living room floor with an undrunk glass of sauvignon blanc in her hand. It's Friday night, and Grantaire's just dodged her again outside of uni campus, saying she has to babysit Gavroche while Éponine works the finish at the Corinthe, which is actually a bulletproof excuse because Éponine _is_ working the finish tonight at the Corinthe, but Enjolras still came away from the interaction feeling discarded, like one of the fundraiser flyers currently filling up her recycling.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange a look over Enjolras's head.

'Enjolras,' Combeferre starts. 'When you and Grantaire first kissed, did you have any conversation about what kind of arrangement you would have, or what it might mean?'

Enjolras's already hunched shoulders rise even higher, close to her ears. 'No. It was just a kiss. I thought we'd just see where it goes.'

'Right,' Courfeyrac says, 'which is perfectly understandable, given your point of view, but there are some things you should know—'

'Courf.' Combeferre's tone is warning.

'Yeah, I know R doesn't want us to say anything, but I think Enjolras deserves a little bit of context. Enj, R likes you. A lot. And she has done for a really long time.'

Enjolras blinks, and tries to assimilate this new information into her impression of what is going on. 'Okay,' she says.

'She doesn't have much experience in relationships. Or, in fact, any,' Courfeyrac continues.

'That's not—'

'I mean actual girlfriend-type relationships, not just awful Tinder dates. If I'm being honest, I think it's possible that you're the only person she's been with that she has real feelings for.'

'Oh,' says Enjolras faintly.

'If she's being weird, it's probably related to that,' says Courfeyrac. 'Don't give up on her just yet. Give her time.'

'I don't understand how liking somebody would make you move _slower_ ,' Enjolras complains, but she does feel the rekindling of hope in her chest, a flame so tiny she's afraid to admit it's there in case it dies the next second.

'You'd be surprised at how people manage to tie themselves in knots when it comes to love,' Combeferre says wisely.

'Especially lesbians,' Courfeyrac adds.

Enjolras groans. 'Lucky us.' 

-

Enjolras is bad at waiting.

She does try—for three days. She decides to focus on her coursework, holes up in the library with a thermos of coffee and a pack of highlighters, but she keeps opening new tabs on her laptop to browse Grantaire's Instagram. On Saturday night, Grantaire posts a picture of herself and Éponine getting ready to go out drinking. They look good together, two sides of the same coin: Grantaire neatly groomed in a paisley buttoned-up men's shirt and blazer, a stray lock of hair curling into her cheek, and Éponine wild-haired and dewy-skinned in a semi-sheer black dress. Éponine's making a lewd gesture with her tongue between two fingers, and Grantaire's laughing at her instead of looking at the camera, her eyes all crinkly.

Maybe they'll go to one of the gay bars in the Marais, Enjolras thinks savagely, and drink shots of tequila, and dance, and even go home with strangers—why not? Enjolras and Grantaire are no more a thing than technically are Éponine and Mari. Enjolras slams her laptop shut and works without Internet for a while, but then she has to Google something, so she does it on her phone, which leads down the same rabbit hole.

That's just day one. On day two, Enjolras decides to run off her anxiety. She hits the gym for the first time in months, and attempts the treadmill, but she's weak in both body and spirit. After about ten minutes, her lungs are threatening to give up; five minutes more, her legs are jelly; two minutes later, she's convinced herself it's probably enough for one day, hitting the stop button, chugging her water bottle, and heading out, gym bag slung over her shoulder, feeling vaguely ashamed. Naturally, an hour later, her thoughts are back on Grantaire. Back in her apartment, she gets out of the shower, lies naked on a towel in bed and has precisely three orgasms thinking about Grantaire's mouth.

Day three, she's back at university, attending lectures. It's hopeless. Any time she glimpses someone with a dark head of hair while walking across campus, her heart rate triples. It's never Grantaire. And lectures are difficult enough to focus on without such an alluring distraction.

At some point, without having fully given herself permission, she begins formulating a plan, stringing together what she'd like to say, imagining how she'd go about saying it, envisioning how Grantaire might react— _of course, just hypothetically_ , she tells herself, though that voice of reason gets quieter and weaker every time.

Day four, she's skipped class and walked across town to the apartment shared by Grantaire, Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet. Her heart is in her throat. She's knocking on the door.

'Oh, hello Enjolras!' Joly says in tones of warm surprise. 'Is everything okay with you?'

'Fine. I'm actually looking for Grantaire,' she says. Her hands are trembling slightly.

'I'll just fetch her. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea?'

'Thanks, Joly, but I'm all right. I'll just wait out here.' It's a breezy day, and the longer she stands, the more teeth-chatteringly cold she gets, but something feels off about inviting herself into Grantaire's home to lecture her on why they should be together.

' _R! Door for you_!'

It's past midday, but Grantaire looks as if she's just rolled out of bed, in her oversized black t-shirt with its slogan _Fuck Work Let's Riot_ , her unkempt hair, her smudgy eyeliner, her legs and feet bare. For about three full seconds, Enjolras is completely overwhelmed by this vision. Then she realises she's being weird, and needs to say something, fast.

'Uh—um,' she says. Not the best start.

Grantaire raises her eyebrows. _Fuck_. What was the plan?

'How are you?' she asks.

'Slightly confused,' says Grantaire pointedly.

'Right. Yes. I wanted to talk to you.' She wavers for a moment. Is she really going to do this? 'Okay,' she says, gearing up. 'I just wanted to say that... the last time you came to my apartment. That wasn't nothing. It meant a lot to me. Obviously, I don't really go out with people much. Most of the time, I'm wrapped up in myself and my work. It was only recently I gave myself permission to think about relationships at all. But I do think about them now, and I think I'd like to be in one with you. Because I like you. Really, really like you, I mean. Can't stop thinking about you, actually. I'm sort of a mess. So maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like you have been keeping me at a distance, which is fine. I just thought you should have—' she remembers Courfeyrac's phrase—'a bit of context. You know, so if you want to keep seeing me, or dump me, or anything, it's an informed decision.'

Grantaire's just staring at her, expressionless. Enjolras feels like she's having an out-of-body experience, like the sense of humiliation has catapulted her out of her mortal form and up into the clouds.

'That's it,' she adds pathetically.

'Okay,' Grantaire says. 'Thank you.'

'No problem.' Her face is burning. 'So I'll see you at the ABC?'

'I'll be there.'

'Okay. So I'll just.' Enjolras makes a tragic little gesture in the direction of the road.

'Bye then,' Grantaire says. Enjolras still can't figure out her facial expression, but she feels like it can't be good, especially given that seconds later, after Enjolras squeaks out a final 'Bye,' the door is closed in her face.

It's hard to imagine any way it could have gone worse.

Well, at least she tried. 

-

Enjolras's tiny apartment doesn't have a bathtub, which is irritating, because she'd like to have a long soak and a cry in one. She has to settle for a shower with the water scalding hot, the whole ensuite filled with steam. The spray pounds down on Enjolras's back. When she cries, the tears are not the painful, choking kind, but the kind that gush forth easily, soaking her cheeks. She tips her head back under the shower head, washing them away.

Once out, she smooths moisturiser on her face and dresses in the softest garments she can find: pyjama bottoms, and a t-shirt she's had since she was a teenager, any roughness worn out through repeated washes. She heats a pan of milk and makes herself a hot cocoa, drinks it while gazing out of the window at the streets below. She doesn't want to think about it—thinking about it chokes her up as if she's swallowed a whole porcupine, makes her eyes sting—but, she recognises, it only just happened, it's in fact still in the process of happening, and if she ever wants to be over it, she has to experience it fully the first time. Which means the scene is on replay, her own stammering voice and Grantaire's cool, disaffected gaze, and Enjolras just has to grit her teeth and let it happen, wait for it to pass.

Eventually, she feels close enough to calm that she thinks she could get work done, that it might be a welcome distraction. She gets out her books and opens up her laptop.

A Gmail notification catches her attention, an email entitled, _have you ever found some things are easier in dreams?_

Heart suddenly thundering in her chest, Enjolras clicks it.

_I used to roller blade all the time as a kid. I loved it! One of my best childhood memories is opening a box of skates on my eighth birthday. Such beautiful skates, shiny white, with purple laces, purple blades. I used to think of them as my unicorn blades. Every day after school, I would go blading around the block. I'm sure I must have fallen down a few times, but I barely remember that. All I remember is that feeling when I covered the ground in long, smooth, swooping strides, fast!_

_I grew out of those roller blades, and out of roller blading in general, though I still dreamt about it from time to time. In my dreams it was just like that: smooth and swift, the wind in my hair. When I first picked up a pair of skates as an adult, trying out for roller derby with Bahorel, I thought it'd be easy._

_Can you guess what happened? I ate shit! Over and over, to the point it was embarrassing. It turns out even standing upright on skates is a tough exercise. It didn't feel that way when I was a 50-pound child who spent every lunch hour running around, practising handstands and cartwheels, hanging upside down on monkey bars like a weird bat. But now I'm an adult, weak and old and afraid of death. Everything is painful and complicated._

_This is a bit like that. I wanted something so much, wished for it, dreamed about it, fantasised about it, but in some ways I didn't think through what it would actually mean, and now I can't stop fucking up._

_Yes, this is a confession. One I wasn't going to make, but you just spilled your guts on my front doorstep and walked away, and I realised how stupid it would be to just stay silent when everything was finally actually really happening._

_In my daydreams, it's not me, only you. I'm thinking about your mouth, the weapon, the sharp and lethal thing you use to shock people, root them to the spot, shut them up. I'm thinking, god, what an honour it would be to kiss that mouth. I'm not thinking that honour might ever be presented to me._

_I'm thinking about how you are in full flight, tearing into capitalism, blazing light and fury, all eyes on you because everyone is in awe of the terrifying sublime intensity of your passion, everyone wishes they could feel even a fraction of it, hopes a little of it might rub off on them if only they could get close enough. I'm thinking how lucky are the people you allow to love you. I'm never thinking I might count myself among them._

_I'm thinking your hands are so delicate and perfect they look like Bernini sculpted them from marble. I'm not thinking I might ever get to hold them in mine._

_Then, against all odds, I do, and my own hands are all I can see. My fingers are short and stubby, nails bitten down to the quick. They have a funny shape, the hinge joints between the finger bones creating huge, unsightly bumps. There's an ugly white self-harm scar from when I was a teenager on my left._

_Come on, I tell myself. You wanted this, didn't you? Why can't you just enjoy it? Yet all I can think about are the ways I am unworthy of your attention._

_So yes, that's why. Why I hesitate, why I'm slow, why I struggle. I am medicated and in therapy—five years ago, I wouldn't have been able to put any of this into words—but this just means my myriad psychological problems are solvable, not solved._

_More than anything I would love to be carried away, like bubbles to the top of a champagne glass, by the first flush of new romance. It hurts me that I'm incapable of it._

_I understand if I'm too much work. I'm sorry. But if there's a chance you still want to be with me, you should know I still want to be with you._

_R._

 

Enjolras reads the email three times. She paces the apartment, trying not to feel too excited or too despondent. She makes a plan. She texts Grantaire.

 

_Got your email._

_Are you available to meet tomorrow?_

 

The reply comes quickly. Enjolras wonders for a moment if, on the other side of town, Grantaire is pacing too.

 

_working the musain open so any time after 13:00_

 

_Great._

_Can I meet you there?_

 

_sure_

_see you x_  

-

Enjolras does not sleep that night. 

-

  
She changes clothes about three times the next morning. Her hair's falling strangely flat, and it won't seem to fix itself no matter what she does. She has a black coffee and a slice of dry toast, her stomach fluttery and agitated.

She arrives at the Musain fifteen minutes early, but doesn't want to go inside, feels unable to face Grantaire and order a coffee like everything is normal. Instead, she loiters around the exit pretending to look at her phone, wishing she smoked so she'd have something to do.

Time crawls along.

 _I'm outside_ , she texts Grantaire at 13:01.

'Hi,' she says when Grantaire arrives, even though she never says 'hi'; it just comes out.

'Hi,' says Grantaire. She looks—well, beautiful like always, but exhausted, deep dark grooves under her eyes. She lights a cigarette. 'Can we go for a little walk?'

'Of course,' Enjolras says.

There's a little grove outside campus with a cycle track running through it. At this time of year, there are cherry blossoms. It's a cold, bright day; Grantaire's smoke lingers in the brisk, still air.

'Did you have a good shift?'

'I hate mornings,' Grantaire says. 'Everything about rising before the sun absolutely chills me to the bone. Especially if you then go and work for eight hours in a kitchen with no windows.' She hesitates. 'So—I'm sorry about that email.'

'Don't be sorry.'

They come to a bench, and sit down, side by side, their knees angled towards one another.

'It occurred to me after the fact it might have been self-indulgent,' Grantaire goes on. She's avoiding Enjolras's gaze, which is a feat given they are directly face-to-face. 'Or maudlin. Or like I was putting the onus on you to sympathise, or fix me. That was the opposite of my intention. I just wanted to explain—'

'I got it,' Enjolras says firmly. Acting on pure instinct, she reaches for Grantaire's free hand, squeezes it. 'Look at my face,' she says.

Grantaire does.

'It's not half as complicated as you make it out to be,' she says. 'Combeferre actually taught me this when I started writing my speeches down. You can just say what you mean, you don't have to qualify and explain every single statement or add a dozen half-apologies. This isn't your PhD, it's how you feel.'

'Ugh,' Grantaire says, stubbing out her cigarette. 'Feelings are the worst. Can't I just take them to the pawn shop and get them exchanged for hard cash?'

'Feelings make you who you are,' Enjolras says patiently. 'And believe it or not, I actually like who you are.'

Grantaire has a sceptical face on, like she's about to make a comment along the lines of _you're right, I don't believe it_ , so Enjolras places the hand not holding Grantaire's under Grantaire's jaw, leans in, and kisses her, a hard, unsentimental kiss like the full stop at the end of a sentence. A kiss that says,  _so there_.

When she pulls back, Grantaire is smiling at her ruefully.

'Now, will you come back to my place?' 

'Fine,' Grantaire says, and Enjolras kisses her again.

-

As soon as they get inside, Enjolras puts her iPod on shuffle and pours two glasses of whisky, a cube of ice in each.

Grantaire takes hers, sips.

'Hold on,' she says. 'Is this—'

'Balvenie malt whisky? Yes, and you better take it home with you. I can't stand it,' Enjolras says, taking a gulp of her own and wincing slightly.

'You got it for me?'

'I pay attention sometimes.'

'It's not even two o'clock and you're on the spirits,' Grantaire laments. 'This is how spending time with me leads to moral and physical degradation.'

'I really wish you would stop dunking on yourself all the time for laughs,' Enjolras says. 'You could be congratulated on expanding my palate.'

Grantaire snorts, and when Enjolras kicks off her shoes and curls up on the couch, Grantaire scoots forward eagerly for a kiss.

With that, Enjolras feels the tension in the air break. She sighs into it, opening her mouth right away. Grantaire climbs into her lap, and it feels so good how their bodies are pressed together, like they fit, like this is the way it _should be_ , throwing all of the bullshit, the talk, the anxiety and self-doubt into sharp relief. As if you could deny this chemistry, this _rightness_ , the magnetic way their bodies pull together, the thick, heavy heat in the air. Enjolras is already making high, painful sounds, like she's been on edge for hours, for days, and maybe she has.

Enjolras takes her own shirt off. There's a long moment where Grantaire bites her lip, hesitating. And then she follows suit.

Enjolras tries not to stare, but it must not work, because Grantaire crosses her arms over her chest and scowls.

'Sorry!' she protests. 'You just look good.'

She's not lying: Grantaire is small in stature, but has an unexpected hourglass body, wide, bursting curves, soft breasts and stomach and thighs.

'Whatever,' Grantaire says, though Enjolras can tell she's a little mollified; she lets Enjolras get her bra and jeans all the way off, and then it's glorious, skin to skin, everything amplified and intense. Enjolras is obsessed with Grantaire's legs, can't resist the temptation to run her fingers up the delicate skin of Grantaire's inner thighs, which makes Grantaire swear and thrust her hips against Enjolras's.

There's another hiccup when Enjolras tries to go down on her.

'It's okay,' Grantaire says, squirming. It's the feeblest 'no' Enjolras has ever heard.

'Don't you like it?' Enjolras asks gently.

'No, I do. Usually.'

'We can try something else—'

'Augh,' Grantaire says, looking tormented. 'I mean, we might as well. If you want to.'

'I want to. Obviously. But if you're not comfortable—'

' _Auuughhhh_ ,' Grantaire says, and covers her face with her forearm, which cracks Enjolras up.

Grantaire laughs a little, too, in spite of herself. 

'Maybe I want it,' she says from underneath the arm. 'But maybe I'm embarrassed of wanting it. Maybe I think I'm too grotesque to want things, let alone express that I want them. Like, who do I think I am? Some kind of real live human with normal and valid sexual desires?'

That tugs at Enjolras. She reaches for Grantaire's hand again.

'I think "grotesque" is a _bit_ dramatic,' she says. 'Don't you think if you were Cthulhu, someone would have pointed it out to you by now?'

'Oh my God, you nerd,' Grantaire says. 'Combeferre has had a terrible influence on you.'

Enjolras crawls forward, gently removes the arm from Grantaire's face, and dips in for a tender kiss, which deepens quickly, until they've worked the mood back to where it was before, and Grantaire's panting into her mouth, 'Okay, yes. Shit, _please,_ I want this.'

After that, for all Grantaire's prevaricating, it's easy. Enjolras applies light tongue pressure at first, but that soon has Grantaire making needy sounds and rising to meet her mouth, so she shifts, arranges them so that Grantaire's heels are digging into Enjolras's back, Enjolras's thumbs into Grantaire's hips. Then Grantaire's riding Enjolras's face, and Enjolras is just trying to keep up. It's messy and just this side of rough, Enjolras's chin covered in spit, but Grantaire's moaning properly now, loud, uninhibited, unambiguous sounds of pure pleasure, lost in pursuit of orgasm.

She comes once, twice, and then Enjolras manages to get her fingers into where she's slick and loose, and Grantaire comes two more times that way, until finally she groans, laughing, 'Enjolras, _fuck_ , I can't go another time,' and Enjolras eases off and sets her hips back on the couch.

She crawls forward, bracing herself with a hand on either side of Grantaire's shoulders. Grantaire looks up at her through hazy, half-lidded eyes, long dark lashes fluttering.

'Fuck,' she says. 'That was so... You're so...'

'I'm what?'

Grantaire surges up for a kiss. Her hands glide down to Enjolras's waist, and then—god, Grantaire is so _good_ , Enjolras doesn't know what manoeuvre she pulls, but she's got Enjolras on her side, and she's fucking her hard from behind, and Enjolras was so absorbed in Grantaire she didn't realise how deeply aroused she was. She's curling her toes, and arching her back, closing in on the feeling. When she comes, it's almost soundless.

Grantaire's stroking her hair as she catches her breath.

She twists around, and they kiss with swollen, stinging lips.

Eventually, fatigue settles in. Their rate of kissing slows to maybe two pecks per minute, and then they're just idly nuzzling against each other, and then they shift, so Grantaire's spooning Enjolras.

They doze off together like that, naked, the iPod still playing a sad indie song. 

-

'I'm not against it,' Grantaire's saying from the bathroom. 'I'm just trying to warn you, we will attract a lot of attention.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Enjolras says, combing through her hair, an eye on her reflection in the small mirror on the table. 'Everyone is there for the shelter. What reason would they have to care?'

It's the night of the fundraiser, the culmination of the last few weeks of flyering and publicity, most of which Enjolras took on board herself as a favour to the chairwoman of the shelter, Simplice. Grantaire had claimed she wasn't going, but when Enjolras asked what she was doing, she'd shrugged and said something about rewatching Veronica Mars from the beginning, her main argument against accompanying Enjolras apparently amounting to, 'I already got the beers in.' She'd since got into the spirit of things, showed up at Enjolras's apartment in a beautifully tailored grey men's suit, and was now monopolizing the bathroom to do her make-up.

'Everyone's obsessed with you, Enjolras,' Grantaire says. 'You don't think they're going to be interested that you, the noted ice queen, have a girlfriend?'

' _Ice queen_ ,' Enjolras mutters. After a brief moment of contemplation, she dabs a bit of pink gloss on her lips.

Grantaire emerges from the bathroom. 'Are you ready?'

She's glowing, grinning. Enjolras grins back, and when Grantaire offers her arm, she takes it.

They catch the métro, and make it to the fundraiser 'only' (Grantaire's word) twenty minutes late. The party is a slightly pitiful affair in a dance hall with buffet food on folding tables, top 40 hits pumping through the speakers, but there's a bar, and most importantly, there are _people_ here, which means Enjolras's publicity efforts have not been futile.

They take a lap of the room, and to Enjolras's deep exasperation, it turns out Grantaire is right.

'Enjolras, my dear, it's so lovely to see you again!' Simplice greets her. 'And... _who_ is this?'

'You two make such a beautiful couple,' coos a volunteer.

A young girl with a nose piercing even approaches them, gushing. 'Excuse me, I just wanted to say, I find the two of you as a couple so inspiring. Enjolras, I've looked up to you ever since I started university here...' 

Enjolras talks to her for a few minutes, while Grantaire slithers away like the snake she truly is. The girl is a sociology student from a small town with a conservative culture, where she was outed and experienced homophobic bullying. 'And I never want anyone to have to face what I faced alone,' she says earnestly. 'That's why I'm an activist now.' Enjolras recognises the youthful bravado intrinsic to the story she tells: _I suffered, but now I've grown up and grown past it, I'm happy and confident and together, and nothing is haunting me._ She gives the girl her card and tells her to come to the ABC any time.

Grantaire reappears just as the girl departs, and Enjolras is letting go of a long, shaky breath.

'People really think I'm an adult,' Enjolras says, and accepts the plastic cup Grantaire passes her, taking a sip. It's a very strong vodka lemonade.

'We are adults, I'm afraid,' Grantaire says, toasting her solemnly.

Enjolras loops her arm in Grantaire's, gives it a squeeze. 'Don't know if I like that.'

A familiar voice hollers, ' _Enjolras_!'

She barely has time to extricate herself from Grantaire before Courfeyrac is hurtling into her arms. She laughs, meets Combeferre's eye over Courf's shoulder. The whole group are there, even Éponine.

'How the hell did you get a Friday night off?' Grantaire's asking her, and everyone dissolves into their usual excitable chatter, and it's warm and comfortable and mildly chaotic.

'Enjolras, are you wearing _lipgloss_?' Courfeyrac squints at her suspiciously.

'I don't—shut up!' Enjolras protests. 'Grantaire was so dressed up, I felt the pressure to do something different.'

'I'm glad you freaks worked it out,' Courf says, and ruffles her hair.

' _Attention everyone_!' Simplice's voice rings out through the speakers. 'Hello? Can I have everyone's attention for a couple of minutes?'

Everyone turns to where she's standing by the bar.

'Won't keep you long, I've just got a couple of things to say and a few thank-yous to do. So, all proceeds from tonight go to the women's shelter. There are collection boxes at the door and at the bar.' She gestures next to her. 'First off, to all of the hard-working volunteers staffing this event...'

There's applause.

'You're all amazing. And I'd like to say a special thank you, while she's here, to Enjolras, founder and president of the organisation the ABC—' Courfeyrac whoops, and Enjolras glares at her, mortified. 'Enjolras does so much work and inspires so many people, I'm sure you all know her by now. She's put in a huge amount of work to help organise this event, so we actually all chipped in and got her something...'

The girl with the piercing who'd spoken to Enjolras earlier darts up next to Simplice, carrying a small bouquet of flowers in her arms, all blue, yellow and white. Grantaire shoots Enjolras a look of sadistic glee at her imminent public humiliation.

'It's not just about tonight. Enjolras doesn't officially volunteer with us, but she makes it her duty to reach out to any organisation for marginalised or vulnerable groups of people and do what she can. I know it's all business to her, and she doesn't think it's a big deal, but her actions do have a big impact, so I'd like to take this opportunity to thank her for her immense kindness. Enjolras, would you mind coming up here?'

Enjolras's face is burning. She can't bear to look at any of her friends as she accepts the bouquet from Simplice and the girl, mutters an embarrassed _thank you_.

Enjolras returns to Grantaire's side to watch the rest of Simplice's speech, and Grantaire murmurs, 'Well done,' with only a tiny hint of irony.

'I did nothing,' she hisses. 'I barely helped!'

'But it's just like she said,' Grantaire whispers back. 'It's your impact in general.'

'Ugh,' Enjolras says, and Grantaire grabs her hand, strong and firm, brings it up to her mouth, and kisses it, long and lingering.

'That was horribly chivalrous,' she says, feeling herself blush from head to toe, and Grantaire gives her a wicked smile.

Maybe, she thinks, it's okay to be happy after all. At least for now.


End file.
